Complete Works of Samuel Johnson

by Samuel Johnson

  In the evening the pair formed part of a corps of party “wits,” led by Sir Joshua Reynolds, to the benefit of Mrs. Abingdon, who had been a frequent model of the painter. Johnson praised Garrick’s prologues, and Boswell kindly reported the eulogy to Garrick, with whom he supped at Beauclerk’s. Garrick treated him to a mimicry of Johnson, repeating, “with pauses and half-whistling,” the lines, —

  Os homini sublime dedit — coelumque tueri

  Jussit — et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus:

  looking downwards, and at the end touching the ground with a contorted gesticulation. Garrick was generally jealous of Johnson’s light opinion of him, and used to take off his old master, saying, “Davy has some convivial pleasantry about him, but ’tis a futile fellow.”

  Next day, at Thrales’, Johnson fell foul of Gray, one of his pet aversions. Boswell denied that Gray was dull in poetry. “Sir,” replied Johnson, “he was dull in company, dull in his closet, dull everywhere. He was dull in a new way, and that made people think him great. He was a mechanical poet.” He proceeded to say that there were only two good stanzas in the Elegy. Johnson’s criticism was perverse; but if we were to collect a few of the judgments passed by contemporaries upon each other, it would be scarcely exceptional in its want of appreciation. It is rather odd to remark that Gray was generally condemned for obscurity — a charge which seems strangely out of place when he is measured by more recent standards.

  A day or two afterwards some one rallied Johnson on his appearance at Mrs. Abingdon’s benefit. “Why did you go?” he asked. “Did you see?” “No, sir.” “Did you hear?” “No, sir.” “Why, then, sir, did you go?” “Because, sir, she is a favourite of the public; and when the public cares the thousandth part for you that it does for her, I will go to your benefit too.”

  The day after, Boswell won a bet from Lady Di Beauclerk by venturing to ask Johnson what he did with the orange-peel which he used to pocket. Johnson received the question amicably, but did not clear the mystery. “Then,” said Boswell, “the world must be left in the dark. It must be said, he scraped them, and he let them dry, but what he did with them next he never could be prevailed upon to tell.” “Nay, sir,” replied Johnson, “you should say it more emphatically — he could not be prevailed upon, even by his dearest friends to tell.”

  This year Johnson received the degree of LL.D. from Oxford. He had previously (in 1765) received the same honour from Dublin. It is remarkable, however, that familiar as the title has become, Johnson called himself plain Mr. to the end of his days, and was generally so called by his intimates. On April 2nd, at a dinner at Hoole’s, Johnson made another assault upon Gray and Mason. When Boswell said that there were good passages in Mason’s Elfrida, he conceded that there were “now and then some good imitations of Milton’s bad manner.” After some more talk, Boswell spoke of the cheerfulness of Fleet Street. “Why, sir,” said Johnson, “Fleet Street has a very animated appearance, but I think that the full tide of human existence is at Charing Cross.” He added a story of an eminent tallow-chandler who had made a fortune in London, and was foolish enough to retire to the country. He grew so tired of his retreat, that he begged to know the melting-days of his successor, that he might be present at the operation.

  On April 7th, they dined at a tavern, where the talk turned upon Ossian. Some one mentioned as an objection to its authenticity that no mention of wolves occurred in it. Johnson fell into a reverie upon wild beasts, and, whilst Reynolds and Langton were discussing something, he broke out, “Pennant tells of bears.” What Pennant told is unknown. The company continued to talk, whilst Johnson continued his monologue, the word “bear” occurring at intervals, like a word in a catch. At last, when a pause came, he was going on: “We are told that the black bear is innocent, but I should not like to trust myself with him.” Gibbon muttered in a low tone, “I should not like to trust myself with you” — a prudent resolution, says honest Boswell who hated Gibbon, if it referred to a competition of abilities.

  The talk went on to patriotism, and Johnson laid down an apophthegm, at “which many will start,” many people, in fact, having little sense of humour. Such persons may be reminded for their comfort that at this period patriot had a technical meaning. “Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.” On the 10th of April, he laid down another dogma, calculated to offend the weaker brethren. He defended Pope’s line —

  Man never is but always to be blest.

  And being asked if man did not sometimes enjoy a momentary happiness, replied, “Never, but when he is drunk.” It would be useless to defend these and other such utterances to any one who cannot enjoy them without defence.

  On April 11th, the pair went in Reynolds’s coach to dine with Cambridge, at Twickenham. Johnson was in high spirits. He remarked as they drove down, upon the rarity of good humour in life. One friend mentioned by Boswell was, he said, acid, and another muddy. At last, stretching himself and turning with complacency, he observed, “I look upon myself as a good-humoured fellow” — a bit of self-esteem against which Boswell protested. Johnson, he admitted, was good-natured; but was too irascible and impatient to be good-humoured. On reaching Cambridge’s house, Johnson ran to look at the books. “Mr. Johnson,” said Cambridge politely, “I am going with your pardon to accuse myself, for I have the same custom which I perceive you have. But it seems odd that one should have such a desire to look at the backs of books.” “Sir,” replied Johnson, wheeling about at the words, “the reason is very plain. Knowledge is of two kinds. We know a subject ourselves, or we know where we can find information upon it. When we inquire into any subject, the first thing we have to do is to know what books have treated of it. This leads us to look at catalogues, and the backs of books in libraries.”

  A pleasant talk followed. Johnson denied the value attributed to historical reading, on the ground that we know very little except a few facts and dates. All the colouring, he said, was conjectural. Boswell chuckles over the reflection that Gibbon, who was present, did not take up the cudgels for his favourite study, though the first-fruits of his labours were to appear in the following year. “Probably he did not like to trust himself with Johnson.”

  The conversation presently turned upon the Beggar’s Opera, and Johnson sensibly refused to believe that any man had been made a rogue by seeing it. Yet the moralist felt bound to utter some condemnation of such a performance, and at last, amidst the smothered amusement of the company, collected himself to give a heavy stroke: “there is in it,” he said, “such a labefactation of all principles as may he dangerous to morality.”

  A discussion followed as to whether Sheridan was right for refusing to allow his wife to continue as a public singer. Johnson defended him “with all the high spirit of a Roman senator.” “He resolved wisely and nobly, to be sure. He is a brave man. Would not a gentleman be disgraced by having his wife sing publicly for hire? No, sir, there can be no doubt here. I know not if I should not prepare myself for a public singer as readily as let my wife be one.”

  The stout old supporter of social authority went on to denounce the politics of the day. He asserted that politics had come to mean nothing but the art of rising in the world. He contrasted the absence of any principles with the state of the national mind during the stormy days of the seventeenth century. This gives the pith of Johnston’s political prejudices. He hated Whigs blindly from his cradle; but he justified his hatred on the ground that they were now all “bottomless Whigs,” that is to say, that pierce where you would, you came upon no definite creed, but only upon hollow formulae, intended as a cloak for private interest. If Burke and one or two of his friends be excepted, the remark had but too much justice.

  In 1776, Boswell found Johnson rejoicing in the prospect of a journey to Italy with the Thrales. Before starting he was to take a trip to the country, in which Boswell agreed to join. Boswell gathered up various bits of advice before their departure. One seems to have commended itself to him as specially available for pr
actice. “A man who had been drinking freely,” said the moralist, “should never go into a new company. He would probably strike them as ridiculous, though he might be in unison with those who had been drinking with him.” Johnson propounded another favourite theory. “A ship,” he said, “was worse than a gaol. There is in a gaol better air, better company, better conveniency of every kind; and a ship has the additional disadvantage of being in danger.”

  On March 19th, they went by coach to the Angel at Oxford; and next morning visited the Master of University College, who chose with Boswell to act in opposition to a very sound bit of advice given by Johnson soon afterwards — perhaps with some reference to the proceeding. “Never speak of a man in his own presence; it is always indelicate and may be offensive.” The two, however, discussed Johnson without reserve. The Master said that he would have given Johnson a hundred pounds for a discourse on the British Constitution; and Boswell suggested that Johnson should write two volumes of no great bulk upon Church and State, which should comprise the whole substance of the argument. “He should erect a fort on the confines of each.” Johnson was not unnaturally displeased with the dialogue, and growled out, “Why should I be always writing?”

  Presently, they went to see Dr. Adams, the doctor’s old friend, who had been answering Hume. Boswell, who had done his best to court the acquaintance of Voltaire, Rousseau, Wilkes, and Hume himself, felt it desirable to reprove Adams for having met Hume with civility. He aired his admirable sentiments in a long speech, observing upon the connexion between theory and practice, and remarking, by way of practical application, that, if an infidel were at once vain and ugly, he might be compared to “Cicero’s beautiful image of Virtue” — which would, as he seems to think, be a crushing retort. Boswell always delighted in fighting with his gigantic backer close behind him. Johnson, as he had doubtless expected, chimed in with the argument. “You should do your best,” said Johnson, “to diminish the authority, as well as dispute the arguments of your adversary, because most people are biased more by personal respect than by reasoning.” “You would not jostle a chimney-sweeper,” said Adams. “Yes,” replied Johnson, “if it were necessary to jostle him down.”

  The pair proceeded by post-chaise past Blenheim, and dined at a good inn at Chapelhouse. Johnston boasted of the superiority, long since vanished if it ever existed, of English to French inns, and quoted with great emotion Shenstone’s lines —

  Whoe’er has travell’d life’s dull round,

  Where’er his stages may have been,

  Must sigh to think he still has found

  The warmest welcome at an inn.

  As they drove along rapidly in the post-chaise, he exclaimed, “Life has not many better things than this.” On another occasion he said that he should like to spend his life driving briskly in a post-chaise with a pretty woman, clever enough to add to the conversation. The pleasure was partly owing to the fact that his deafness was less troublesome in a carriage. But he admitted that there were drawbacks even to this pleasure. Boswell asked him whether he would not add a post-chaise journey to the other sole cause of happiness — namely, drunkenness. “No, sir,” said Johnson, “you are driving rapidly from something or to something.”

  They went to Birmingham, where Boswell pumped Hector about Johnson’s early days, and saw the works of Boulton, Watt’s partner, who said to him, “I sell here, sir, what all the world desires to have — power.” Thence they went to Lichfield, and met more of the rapidly thinning circle of Johnson’s oldest friends. Here Boswell was a little scandalized by Johnson’s warm exclamation on opening a letter— “One of the most dreadful things that has happened in my time!” This turned out to be the death of Thrale’s only son. Boswell thought the phrase too big for the event, and was some time before he could feel a proper concern. He was, however, “curious to observe how Dr. Johnson would be affected,” and was again a little scandalized by the reply to his consolatory remark that the Thrales still had daughters. “Sir,” said Johnson, “don’t you know how you yourself think? Sir, he wishes to propagate his name.” The great man was actually putting the family sentiment of a brewer in the same category with the sentiments of the heir of Auchinleck. Johnson, however, calmed down, but resolved to hurry back to London. They stayed a night at Taylor’s, who remarked that he had fought a good many battles for a physician, one of their common friends. “But you should consider, sir,” said Johnson, “that by every one of your victories he is a loser; for every man of whom you get the better will be very angry, and resolve not to employ him, whereas if people get the better of you in argument about him, they will think ‘We’ll send for Dr. —— nevertheless!’”

  It was after their return to London that Boswell won the greatest triumph of his friendship. He carried through a negotiation, to which, as Burke pleasantly said, there was nothing equal in the whole history of the corps diplomatique. At some moment of enthusiasm it had occurred to him to bring Johnson into company with Wilkes. The infidel demagogue was probably in the mind of the Tory High Churchman, when he threw out that pleasant little apophthegm about patriotism. To bring together two such opposites without provoking a collision would be the crowning triumph of Boswell’s curiosity. He was ready to run all hazards as a chemist might try some new experiment at the risk of a destructive explosion; but being resolved, he took every precaution with admirable foresight.

  Boswell had been invited by the Dillys, well-known booksellers of the day, to meet Wilkes. “Let us have Johnson,” suggested the gallant Boswell. “Not for the world!” exclaimed Dilly. But, on Boswell’s undertaking the negotiation, he consented to the experiment. Boswell went off to Johnson and politely invited him in Dilly’s name. “I will wait upon him,” said Johnson. “Provided, sir, I suppose,” said the diplomatic Boswell, “that the company which he is to have is agreeable to you.” “What do you mean, sir?” exclaimed Johnson. “What do you take me for? Do you think I am so ignorant of the world as to prescribe to a gentleman what company he is to have at his table?” Boswell worked the point a little farther, till, by judicious manipulation, he had got Johnson to commit himself to meeting anybody — even Jack Wilkes, to make a wild hypothesis — at the Dillys’ table. Boswell retired, hoping to think that he had fixed the discussion in Johnson’s mind.

  The great day arrived, and Boswell, like a consummate general who leaves nothing to chance, went himself to fetch Johnson to the dinner. The great man had forgotten the engagement, and was “buffeting his books” in a dirty shirt and amidst clouds of dust. When reminded of his promise, he said that he had ordered dinner at home with Mrs. Williams. Entreaties of the warmest kind from Boswell softened the peevish old lady, to whose pleasure Johnson had referred him. Boswell flew back, announced Mrs. Williams’s consent, and Johnson roared, “Frank, a clean shirt!” and was soon in a hackney-coach. Boswell rejoiced like a “fortune-hunter who has got an heiress into a post-chaise with him to set out for Gretna Green.” Yet the joy was with trembling. Arrived at Dillys’, Johnson found himself amongst strangers, and Boswell watched anxiously from a corner. “Who is that gentleman?” whispered Johnson to Dilly. “Mr. Arthur Lee.” Johnson whistled “too-too-too” doubtfully, for Lee was a patriot and an American. “And who is the gentleman in lace?” “Mr. Wilkes, sir.” Johnson subsided into a window-seat and fixed his eye on a book. He was fairly in the toils. His reproof of Boswell was recent enough to prevent him from exhibiting his displeasure, and he resolved to restrain himself.

  At dinner Wilkes, placed next to Johnson, took up his part in the performance. He pacified the sturdy moralist by delicate attentions to his needs. He helped him carefully to some fine veal. “Pray give me leave, sir; it is better here — a little of the brown — some fat, sir — a little of the stuffing — some gravy — let me have the pleasure of giving you some butter. Allow me to recommend a squeeze of this orange; or the lemon, perhaps, may have more zest.” “Sir, sir,” cried Johnson, “I am obliged to you, sir,” bowing and turning to him, with
a look for some time of “surly virtue,” and soon of complacency.

  Gradually the conversation became cordial. Johnson told of the fascination exercised by Foote, who, like Wilkes, had succeeded in pleasing him against his will. Foote once took to selling beer, and it was so bad that the servants of Fitzherbert, one of his customers, resolved to protest. They chose a little black boy to carry their remonstrance; but the boy waited at table one day when Foote was present, and returning to his companions, said, “This is the finest man I have ever seen. I will not deliver your message; I will drink his beer.” From Foote the transition was easy to Garrick, whom Johnson, as usual, defended against the attacks of others. He maintained that Garrick’s reputation for avarice, though unfounded, had been rather useful than otherwise. “You despise a man for avarice, but you do not hate him.” The clamour would have been more effectual, had it been directed against his living with splendour too great for a player. Johnson went on to speak of the difficulty of getting biographical information. When he had wished to write a life of Dryden, he applied to two living men who remembered him. One could only tell him that Dryden had a chair by the fire at Will’s Coffee-house in winter, which was moved to the balcony in summer. The other (Cibber) could only report that he remembered Dryden as a “decent old man, arbiter of critical disputes at Will’s.”